I looked down at the world presented below me.
Before I agreed and proudly accepted this job, I’ve always imagined it as an evil, beastly place where the enemies would resemble a loathsome creature from hell itself. I’ve always told myself that this place was corrupt, ugly, wicked, and deserved this very fate I was about to present to them.
But now, with the reality of the world beneath me as a tiny, quiet quilt, I realized how wrong I was.
It seemed peaceful.
Shy.
Innocent, even.
And I was about to destroy it all.
I wondered how many innocent lives I was about to diminish with only one push of a powerful button.
Stop it, I thought to myself. Be a man and think for your people and your nation.
They deserved this; they deserved every last bit of hell thrown at them in the most evil and inhumane way possible. They deserved to have their eyeballs pop out and melt into liquid, their skin burned and sizzling down to the bone, their bodies disintegrated and killed.
I felt my whole body freeze and stiffen the longer I peered down into the serene world sitting below me.
Did they? Did they deserve this? Did they deserve any of this? Did any human being on this earth deserve this merciless, grotesque treatment? Was there truly a human being on this earth that believed that the world below—full of thousands of innocent men, women, elders, and children who smile and laugh innocently everyday in their pure, pure lives—deserved this cruel, heartless attack?
No.
No, I can’t think about this now. It’s too late to doubt myself.
I have to follow the orders. I have to protect my country.
I soared through the cloudy, bleak sky, hands firmly on the control.
A message flicked and buzzed in my ear. It was almost time to attack.
Trying to eliminate thoughts of betrayal and deception, I pushed the skeptic feelings to the back of my mind and thought about the pleased and dignified commanders brimming with pride when they saw the team and me take off as pilots for the mission, the upcoming initiator of a deep mark in world history. I remembered standing in a line before leaving, the commander yelling, “Serve your country. Serve your people. Don’t you ever damn forget what the enemy has done to you and the very country you live in!”
I thought back to my family and friends. It’s been a painfully long time since I’ve seen my beautiful wife, my little baby boy, my close friends. I can hardly remember the faces of my colleagues, my neighbors, my coworkers, or even the formerly familiar walls of my home.
Home. The word was warm and nostalgic, giving me reminiscent spells of a ravenous longing to go back to it and fall back to my previous hushed life. This longing would create nervous knots in my stomach, my body crying and mourning when I would stay still and tell myself that, at this moment, it was impossible; I couldn’t go home.
“Whose fault is this?” I imagined the commander yelling and spitting at me. “The enemy’s!”
Even so, even if they created all of these excruciatingly hard times and bloody wars, was this attack worth all the things they have done to us? Was anything in this world worth what I was about to do—what my country wanted me to do? Wasn’t there some other way, some other more presentable, viable solution than the one that was laid out for them now?
Why and how did it come to this? It was so sick, so crude and disgusting.
Stop! I fiercely thought through gritted teeth. Be a man. Think for your people and your nation!
Another message flicked and buzzed in my ear.
It was time to attack in 10… 9… 8…
A cold, seeping, deep empty feeling filled up my entire body. Suddenly the air was too thick, too heavy, too hard to breath. My throat was stuck. I felt like I was being choked. I felt like I was dying. I felt like death itself.
7… 6… 5… 4…
Slowly, so slowly, I positioned my hand over the attacking button before lightly touching its cool, sleek surface. The cockpit buzzed with hushed, forceful tones, whispering to try to comfort and bring me forward to deliver this crude fate to thousands. The air bit around me, crushing me, suffocating me, forcing me to oblige to carry out the mission to what this aircraft was destined to execute: kill and destroy, destroy and kill.
3… 2… 1…
A killer. A murderer. A slayer. A slaughterer.
Did I want to be known as this type of person? Could I live my life knowing that I killed innocent people because my country was scared of their threats?
Victory meant the world to my country, but did the world mean anything to them?
My finger was against the button, everything around me pausing to see what I would do next.
Be a man and think for your people and your nation.
Be a man.
Think for your people.
Think for your nation!
There was no turning back. I was going to change history.
Attack.
I pressed the button.
I heard the nuclear bomb tear through the sky, giving a wailing shriek of a warning as it sorrowfully cried and plunged into the innocent town, delivering its present of death and annihilation. The cry of the bomb took my thoughts along with its forceful offering of obliteration: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
I was numb. So, so numb. There was an empty feeling in my stomach. I was cold. So, so cold.
I saw the blinding explosions before hearing the deafening sounds. Everywhere beneath me was white, blinding light, then smoke, thick smoggy smoke. An invisible force stimulated my plane to jerk up and down, causing me to bring control back to the system as the formerly peaceful and serene world below distorted into chaotic devastation.
Suddenly the air went from thick to thin. My breathing was ragged and fast—was I flying too high up in the air? What is it? Why am I like this?—and I felt my heart racing too fast, about to leap out of my chest and join in the mass destruction below.
My mind blurred, blackened. What was that oozing, dying sound? It was so sick, so repulsively revolting. It made my blood turn icy cold, my skin prickling with goose bumps and shivers.
The screams—the decaying, dying screams. I heard them. I heard them all. I heard their agony, their pain, their life melting and fading away into dust. I heard them cry, I heard them wail, I heard their grieving and perishing cry for help.
I heard it.
I heard it all.
And I did nothing about it.
The worst part was hearing it cut off, hearing it end in a sudden and abrupt matter. They were briefly there with the most desperate and pitiful cry of help, and then there was a deceased silence. They were gone. They were dead. It was silent.
I wanted to scream.
My mind kept replaying their imaginary cries, their faces contorted into something ugly and monstrous. I saw their hollow eyes, their burnt face, their melting skin. I saw their pain and hurt, their ugly faces with a sadness so deep it made me shatter into a million pieces.
“Why?” I heard them whisper through their nonexistent scaly lips, their empty hollow eyes reaching out to me. “Why? Why?” They made hideous crying noises and wails in despair, but no tears came out. They didn’t have any liquid in them. They didn’t have any blood. They were dry, beastly creatures with only bone and skin. “Why? Why did you do this to us? Why? Why?”
I saw a crying child that was separated from his family, dying in the middle of the street. He was lost, he was confused, and he wanted to go home. But there was no home. There was no family. There was nothing.
He was dead. She was dead. They were dead. They were all dead.
The woman who used to model in magazines was dead. The retired teacher who taught many successful students was dead. The little baby boy who was born into this cursed world two months ago was dead.
They were all dead.
“Why? Why? Why?” I heard them weep in deep anguish before disintegrating away into death.
I was numb. So, so numb. There was an empty feeling in my stomach. I was cold. So, so cold.
I had pressed that button. I did this. I did this to them. I killed them. I killed them all.
I imagined my country cheering and celebrating after hearing about the successful attack.
I was numb. So, so numb.
I am a man, I thought weakly with a shaking disturbed body. I thought for my people and my nation.
But I wasn’t a man. I wasn’t a human. I wasn’t anything.
I was numb.
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139,355 Literary Works • 672,540 Reviews
I Love this. I see how you say our styles are similar. Once again, I love this.
holy shit i am speechless! wow. I felt like I was the person - like I was thinking and feeling everything he was thinking and feeling. I absolutely loved it and wouldn't change a thing about it.
If you asked most people what they thought a good writer is they would say that a good writer is someone who knows how to write. In quite a lot of ways this is true, and it definitely helps to have good vocabulary and grammar etc, but I have a different belief. I believe that a good writer (or painter, or songwriter, or any other creative genius) needs to have something special inside of them to truly be able to write something magnificent. To create a good piece of writing, a writer needs to be able to see things other people can't see, express things in ways others could only dream of doing. A good writer is someone who can make a reader escape from reality and feel as if they're someone else.
I believe you have this ability, and as long as you have passion and persistence you will go far.
Sorry for the long rave; I just couldn't help myself xD
Hello. Here as requested.
I am not actually sure you've done your research on nuclear warfare. The drop on Hiroshima was begun at 31,060 feet (about ten thousand feet lower than modern day jet flight, so you can never see the ground), and the bomb dropped for 43 seconds before it detonated nearly two thousand feet above the city. Those 43 seconds are used to fly away, because a nuclear bomb has energy go up. The light as a result of the nuclear blast is blinding and the pilots wear goggles for a reason.
Also, missions were done as fly overs, so the pilot basically had to be living on base for the training required to handle a nuclear bomb plane, then the safe methods to get out. Because of how long the drop time actually was, pilots don't feel the shockwave till much later (since it has to travel to catch up with the plane itself). Some drops can be considered suicide missions depending on the size of the blast and the speed of the plane.
The training to be a pilot was intense. It usually requires a few months of training at least to be a pilot. Sometimes longer if there was specialty training involved, which would be the case with a pilot with a nuclear drop and the plane's controls. He'd likely have gone on test drops. The military drills its soldiers until the instinct is second nature. He would have a routine, he would have done this before. There would be the difference it was real, but the drills are meant to override that.
Which brings me to your point of view. It doesn't read like a soldier's. It reads like somebody very immature, without the battle hardened training. A military mindset is much different from a normal mindset. They are trained how to react, how to think, how to perform. That doesn't mean they don't come back with some pretty serious mental issues, but it does mean that their perspective would be unmistakably military.
Now, this soldier would likely develop post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) from pulling this drop (the way you've shown it). PTSD manifests itself in very exact, well documented ways. Do some research into what the reaction is, and how it sinks in. That will dictate the second half of the story.
Overall, I couldn't connect with this. It was shown so unrealistically, between the lack of military perspective, the repetitive breakdown (breakdowns are more like a blank slate with very strong feelings, and yes there is rambling but it's much more overwhelming than what you showed) and the inaccuracies for how a nuclear bomb is actually detonated, it was bland.
Your strength would come in letting us get deeper into the character's head. Not through telling us what he's feeling, but by making us feel it. The weight of the equipment, the sweat in his hands, the fact he can't see clearly from feeling disgusted with himself and the risk of his plane going down. If you're going to have him talk about the lives he destroyed, please make it obvious he's imagining it. Because he wouldn't be able to see it otherwise he's just as dead as they are.
But, right now, this is nothing more than an overdone concept without a punch.
PM me if you have any questions or comments.
~Rosey
"The Button". Well isn't that an interesting way to present the infamous atomic bomb?
I was definitely, most certainly surprised by what I viewed here. It was refreshing though to read another anti-war perspective besides my own. I am also against "necessary evil" (wAr) and it is the second most common topic of conversation.
Therefore, I felt that I could relate. To me, presenting such a devasting, evil and hideously selfish descision in the manner that you did was incredible.
You did an amazing job here. The lines were very real and I felt like the situation was almost too real. Once again, this was amazing. Well done!
I thought that this story was really, really good. I loved the concept behind it. As sbear1231 said, it did show a darker side of humanity that made the story both sickening and compelling to read. A lot of the language you use is not particularly unique, but the way you got inside the head of the bomber made up for it.
I think, towards the start of the story, you should refer to the world differently. You say "humans" and then you say "my country". When you say the latter, I assume the main character is a human as well. I'm guessing this is the WW2 bombings in Japan? I think you should slip in what country either the bomber is from, or what country he is attacking, because if you don't it doesn't become clear until way later. If that's what you wanted, then good, you hit it spot on.
You might want to stretch out the time between the counting down to the attack. I felt like the beginning and the end were perfectly paced, but I wished that middle section had been a tiny bit slower.
I would rewrite your paragraph about models in magazines and teachers, because the sentences are too long, and honestly, they are very badly structured and don't flow with the rest of the story. I liked the idea behind the paragraph, but I think you should add more to it, and give it more of a brutally honest feel. That might make it a slight bit more important, and easier to read.
I really liked this story. Like all stories, there's a lot you could do to it to make it better. For starters, however, this is pretty great. Although its heart wrenching, especially with the dying baby and all that sad stuff. If you have any questions, message me. Keep writing, and good luck with the story!
WOW! This story is amazing! To me, this felt like a real person. This story really took a darker look on humanity but you did it in a way that seemed genuine and real. I really liked your use of what I call the pyramid affect. It's pretty much when you start out general when referring to something and then you start to get more specific or vice-versa. For example, the second last sentence. I also liked your use of repetition but I thought that at sometimes it was unnecessary. Repetition can amplify any kind of emotion or mood in the story but sometimes it just makes it dry. I didn't notice that a lot so that's good but just be careful. What I like to do is read my story to someone and ask them when they start feeling like they don't want to read anymore. Other than that, I thought it was really good. I loved how you showed the contrast between the bomber and the country, how their ideology wasn't the same and how it's easy to just let someone else do it. I pretty much liked everything about this story so good job and keep writing